


Three months

by 2W_NikiAngel



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Artist Grantaire, Enjolras Has Feelings, Light Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not Beta Read, Pining Grantaire, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21563833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2W_NikiAngel/pseuds/2W_NikiAngel
Summary: What actually upset him about that sentence? He knew it very well. This was Enjolras' favorite drink. It was the only alcohol he could drink without feeling ill. He drank it the day he last saw him. It’s been three months already.[Český originální text/Czech original]
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	Three months

**Author's Note:**

> For this story I was inspired by [Anthony's](https://apollo-prouvaire.tumblr.com/post/189285913458/beaten-up-grantaire-what-happened-no-one-knows) beautiful Grantaire's cosplay, which he uploaded on his tumblr today. As soon as I saw him, I was struck by immediate inspiration and here you have the result of my one-hour work (I don't count the English translation, it took me another half day and I'm not happy with it anyway). If you have time, definitely look at [Anthony's tumblr](http://www.apollo-prouvaire.tumblr.com), his cosplays are beautiful and his Grantaire? My favorite. (Maybe even among the all cosplayers of the Les Misérables).
> 
> So I dedicate this story to him. Here's a little message: "Anthony, here you can see what you can do with people looking at your work. I hope you enjoy the story!"
> 
> Edit 4/5/2020: Anthony done another series of photos, this time directly inspired by this story! Here you can see [1 part](https://apollo-prouvaire.tumblr.com/post/617099615803703296/%C2%BD-if-anyone-remembers-i-did-a-very-beaten-up-r) and [2 part](https://apollo-prouvaire.tumblr.com/post/617116410052820992/22-here-is-the-second-part-of-the-photoshoot). He is awesome! Be sure to support him, he is simply the best cosplayer of Grantaire.
> 
> Beautiful reading, sweethearts.

Grantaire lit the light in the bathroom. He walked over to the sink with a large mirror over it. His fingers touched his bruised cheek. He groaned painfully. He knew that by tomorrow his skin around his eye would turn red, blue, and dark purple. Bruises at his nose will heal after two weeks. He had bloody knuckles. His ribs, his hands and his head ached. “He wasn’t soft, asshole,” he laughed, and howled in pain. He will need some time for healing.

_It’s been three months already._

He pulled the frozen vegetables from the freezer, wrapped it in a dishcloth and put it on his eye. He smiled. He remembered his very first fight. He was seven years old and it happened in the school garden. Back then, the class aggressor Didier, a spoiled brat from a wealthy family; decided to make fun of the small, spectacular and stuttering Bruno. Together with his three friends took his glasses, they parted around him and laughed at how he wanted to take them back. Grantaire was a good boy, and most of all hated injustice. He stood beside Bruno, and when Didier laughed, _"Idiot like you can't hurt me,"_ he took a good blow and broke his nose. He cried like a little girl. He had to help the janitor to harvest leaves from the school garden for a month after this. It was worth it.

There were some fights in high school, but he always came home in an unusable state. He even ended up on a hospital bed once. It was on one of the embarrasing high school party, one of the oldest highschooler Paul tried to abuse obviously drunk Michelle. Paul was everyone’s favorite, Grantaire wasn't. Therefore, when the others, strengthened by alcohol, saw Grantaire rush at him, they immediately began to defend him. There could have been ten of them. Fortunately, Grantaire couldn’t remember the night or the subsequent pain much. All he had left was a large scar that stretched from his right rib to his left hip. They beat him up with a metal stick. He had to be acutely operated for internal bleeding. It was the last memory of high school before he started learning at home.

  
He never got into a conflict with his classmates at university. For this he often returned beaten from evening drinks in bars and pubs. It was normal for him to come back almost every week with a new bruise on his face. Joly, despite how cheerful he always was, even screamed him a month ago: “You need to pay more attention to yourself! Why are you still fighting?”

He had a reason. He always stood up for others or defended himself. He never started fights. Actually, he got into them quite innocently.  
  
Until today. He was sitting at the bar. He had a bottle of wine, three shots of rum in him and he just ordered absinthe. Three boys sat down beside him. They laughed, were noisy and smelled of cigars. Grantaire ignored them. Until they ordered three shots of golden Jelzin. “Ugh, this is definitely something that only faggots drink!” One of them laughed, and everyone joined him. Grantaire tapped his shoulder, and when he turned to him, he beat him.  
  
What actually upset him about that sentence? He knew it very well. This was Enjolras' favorite drink. It was the only alcohol he could drink without feeling ill.

He drank it the day he last saw him.

_It’s been three months already._

He put the frozen vegetables on the table and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He needed to smoke. He quickly put one in his mouth and set it on fire. As the nicotine smoke filled his sense, he grunted in delight. He almost forgot how much his head ached. He almost forgot how much he thought of Enjolras.

  
As soon as he remembered his name, he sighed.  
  
_“He's fine,” Combeferre told him today._  
  
_“Did he called you?” He asked him hopefully._  
  
_Combeferre just shook his head and his face suddenly darkened. “No.” He tried to smile, “But I have feeling that he's all right.”_  
  
Have a feeling. He has it too. But he didn't take it so calm. Was he the only one who was really worried about him? Who couldn't stop thinking about him? Who needed him to show up between the doors? To look at him again with his cold but beautiful eyes and speak to him?  
  
His head ached again. The cigarette stopped helping him.  
  
He sighed. He needed to go to bed.  
  
_It's been three months already._

As soon as he fell on the bed, he found himself unwilling to sleep. He looked up at the ceiling, thinking. That was the worst thing a depressed person could do. Think. Grantaire tried to think of the pain he felt from the wounds. That he should be afraid of another Joly's lesson. That he had a school exhibition in a week and was unable to complete a single painting.  
  
But nothing matched the pain he felt in his heart.  
  
He put his hand under his pillow. He felt the fabric that he hides beneath it and pulled it out. Enjolras red shirt. His favorite. He was wearing it three months ago. Together with all the Les Ámis de l’abc, they were at Jehan's birthday party in a dance club. They had fun, drank, ate, danced. It was the first time Grantaire had seen Enjolras dance, drink alcohol, laugh so loud. He had red faces from alcohol and dancing. He was sweaty, his hands constantly stroking his hair, his eyes shining. Grantaire couldn't take his eyes off him.  
  
Grantaire rolled over on the bed, clutching Enjolras's shirt in his hands and burying his nose into it. He closed his eyes.

_It's been three months already._  
  
_“I'll walk you home,” Enjolras said as he noticed Grantaire's legs twitching._  
  
_“I'm fine,” Grantaire protested. By then he could feel Enjolras touching his elbow, helping him to keep his balance._  
  
_“Yeah, I can see that,” Enjolras laughed._  
  
_They walked slowly to Grantaire's apartment. Grantaire pulled the keys from his pants, which Enjolras took from him, unlocked the apartment, and turned on the light. “Sorry,” Grantaire said, noticing the mess in his apartment. There were books, papers, pencils, paints, canvas, used dishes, dirty rags everywhere. “I have too much work now.”_  
  
_“I understand,” Enjolras said. “Shower?”_  
  
_"Bed," Grantaire said, laughing as he noticed Enjolras's glare. “I need to change the sheets anyway. One night with a disgustingly sweaty Grantaire won't kill them.” With that, Enjolras helped Grantaire into bed. He fell into the duvets and grunted blissfully. “If you want to take a shower, the bathroom is at the end of the hallway on the right.” He closed his eyes and wanted to enjoy the moment that he and Enjolras were alone for some time._  
  
_When he opened his eyes an hour later, it was dark. Only a few moonbeams intersected the darkness, which came in through the open window. He blinked a few times to see something. His stomach protested a little. He was feeling little sick. Not from alcohol, but from food. He ate everything he could think of at the party. It wasn’t a good idea. “I’ll shit all morning; I can feel it.”_  
  
_“Way to set up the atmosphere.” Grantaire jumped and looked to the right, where Enjolras was sitting at the small table, sipping hot tea from mug. His hair was freshly washed, and still a little wet, wearing new clothes, tight black trousers, a black T-shirt and a red shirt over it. He had glasses on._  
  
_“You wear glasses?" Grantaire asked in surprise._  
  
_Enjolras just smiled. "Only occasionally," he said, straightening himself in his chair. He signed painfully. He started massaging his shoulder with hand. “I’ll regret the dancing tomorrow,” he remarked at the expense of his aching body, and they both laughed gently._  
  
_“You stayed,” Grantaire said quietly._  
  
_“I missed the last bus. In three hours, my first, morning link is coming. So, I thought I'd wait here. Do you mind?” Enjolras asked cautiously. “I was going to ask you, but by the time I got back from the shower you were sleeping already.”_  
  
_“It’s right," Grantaire said immediately, and Enjolras smiled at him. “Aren't you tired?”_  
  
_“A little,” Enjolras admitted._  
  
_“Then come to bed already.” Enjolras looked skeptically at Grantaire, who pointed to the other half of his already small bed. “You don't have to worry I would try something. I’m too overeat for that.” With that he fell back into the duvets and closed his eyes._  
  
_Enjolras sat in his chair for a while before getting up and walking to the bed. “Are you sure?” He asked weakly._  
  
_Grantaire didn't move, and asked, “And you?”_  
  
_With that, Enjolras lay down beside him. He lay on his back, one hand under his head, the other along his body. He stared at the ceiling, which was illuminated by the full moon. Grantaire lay beside him. He tried to calm his pounding heart. He didn't want to show how nervous he was. He was betrayed by the knocking of his foot and the rapid breathing he couldn't tame._

  
_“Grantaire?” Enjolras suddenly asked into the silence of the room. Grantaire just grunted as a sign that he was listening. “Have you ever wondered how small your existence is in the universe?”_  
  
_Grantaire laughed. “More often than is healthy.”_

_“Has you ever thought that what you're doing isn't worth anything?”_

_“Like you saying my own thoughts.”_

_“And do you ever thought you could make people happy and yourself not? That suddenly you are not doing everything for yourself but for others? That what you started is no longer fulfilling you, but people expect you to keep doing it, and so you do? Even if it bothers you? And hurts sometimes? Even if you don't want to? Are you exhausted and do you feel trapped?” Grantaire opened his eyes and glanced slowly at Enjolras. He spoke softly, almost whispering. “And you know that if you told anyone, no one would listen? Because nobody expects you to be weak. Nobody expects you to have a problem. No one really cares about you, but only about your result.”_

_“Enjolras,” Grantaire whispered, turning and grabbing Enjolras by the cheeks. They looked into each other's eyes. “What are you talking about?”_

_Enjolras was silent for a moment. “I'm not happy, Grantaire.” With that he put his hand on Grantaire's face and pulled him to his. He touched his nose with his own, closed his eyes, and whispered painfully, “I'm not happy.” He touched his earrings and a few tufts of curly, black hair with his fingers._

_“Now you can be.”_

_Grantaire kissed him. Just gently. Innocently. As if he was afraid that Enjolras would crumble beneath him. That he would find it was just another one of his crazy dreams. But Enjolras didn’t fall apart. He responded to his kiss with more courage. His tongue got inside his mouth and groaned softly. His hand gripped him by the hair. He forced Grantaire to lie down on him. “I'll crush you,” he protested, but Enjolras didn't listened._  
_  
Everything then happened so quickly. Enjolras' kisses were hungry; his touches were warm; his movements were knowledgeable; his moans euphoric. He was smiling; he whispered something he didn't understand; he was talking about what would happen when_ he wasn't here _. Grantaire was scared of the words. He always silenced them with another kisses._

_When he woke up in the morning, Enjolras was no longer there._

_Only his red shirt lay by the bed._

_It was the last time they saw him._

_It's been three months already._

Sometimes Enjolras needed to sort his thoughts. Have a moment for himself. Turn off. Relax. Think of what to do next.

It sounded harmless.

“He sometimes does that,” Combeferre said after two weeks, when everyone started asking about Enjolras. “For the time I know him, it’s already a five time he fled for some days. I got used to it.” With that, all discussions on this topic were closed.

But not for Grantaire.

He knew this “fleeing from reality” very well.

He first run from home when he was eleven. He felt weird. As if something was choking him at home. As if he couldn't take a deep breath to live. His father was always at work, his mother was taking care of the whole household alone. But they always liked him. In their own way. His mother bribed him with kisses, his father with sweets. Maybe at that time he began to feel how it was like between them. They argued. Not loud, not in front of him. But often enough. It was the first time he had heard, "If we didn't have him, it would be different between us!" He packed the toys in his backpack with a small bottle of drink and rode the subway all the way to the other side of Paris where his grandmother lived. The next day they picked him up. When he saw the fear in their eyes, he cried.

He run from home a second time when he was fifteen. That was the first time he kissed a boy. His name was Marc. He was his tutor for mathematics lessons. They were sitting at their home, in the living room, with several books spread out on the table. Marc was the premier of the class and the sweetheart of teachers. A math teacher assigned him to Grantaire for tutoring. They didn’t get along much, so their meetings were just for study. But Grantaire couldn't concentrate. He didn't understand why he still had to look at him. Marc was a teenager, but he looked like an adult man. He was tall, had muscles on his hands and chest. He had clear skin, thick blond hair, big blue eyes, a deep voice. And the lips were so big that they urged for a kiss. “Is something wrong?” He asked as he noticed how long he'd been looking at him. Grantaire couldn’t resist. He kissed him. As they pulled away, he had no idea if he had seen Marc's startled expression first or the frightened expression of his mother who come home. Grantaire rose and left. He hadn't come home for five days. He was wondering if he'd rather freeze outside or come back and face what awaited him at home. When he returned, he had a warm dinner, packed suitcases, and a note with number of his grandmother and one sentence: “You can stay with her.”

Both escapes had something in common. He was running _from something_. But when he started college, his escapes changed. He didn’t run away from another salvo of words, family views, what he wanted to influence. He ran from himself.

It started at the Art History class. They were supposed to talk about their favorite painters. Grantaire was called first. The question took him by surprise, but answered, “Eugéne Delacroix.” The professor looked at him sternly and asked, “And why?” And so Grantaire started. He was talking about his life, his works. He was so thrilled that he spoke for twenty minutes without a break. “Great,” the professor finally said, and this time he smiled at him. “I will remember you.” Grantaire, however, couldn’t perceive anything but the whisper of the girls three tables away. They looked at him and laughed. To this day, Grantaire had no idea what they were talking about and he realized how absurd his idea was, but he _can’t help himself_ : _“They talk about me. They make fun of me. They think I know him only because of one famous painting hanging in the Louvre. They think I'm stupid. They saw how I screwed up practice of female nude anatomy. They know I will never be an artist. Before I know it myself. I will never achieve such fame as he does.”_ Grantaire then remained silent for three days. But he could still hear this whispering voice in his head, telling him how _bad, un-talented_ , and especially _useless_ he is.

It was the first time he got drunk.

And then the situation was repeated over and over. A stranger's laugh was enough for him to think they were talking about him. If someone looked at his painting with a frown it was enough for him to think that no one would ever like his arts. If he had a little fight with his friends, it was enough for him to think about they don’t loved him anymore. If someone looked at him, it was enough for him to think about they think he look disgusting. It was enough for his mind to think, and he needed another drink. For a moment, the bitter drink silenced the deafening noise of his own inner voice.

He had lost track of his escapes in the five years he had been studying and struggling with his own demon, which he was trying to push out with another one. Whenever he felt there was too much pressure on his shoulders; when he felt that nothing was worth anymore; when he felt that his art would never move him further; when he felt he was not worth anything; he left. For a few days he closed himself in a rented studio somewhere in France, far from Paris. He drank, smoked, cried, screamed, ruined things, talked to himself. After a week, he returned to his apartment, screaming out of all the pain his heart felt; and he was “okay” again. He went to school, to work, to meetings. He laughed, drank, said jokes, wore tasteless clothes, overeated the sweet.

Nobody knew anything was bothering him; that something is wrong with him _; he didn't have to be here anymore._

When he remembered the thoughts that consumed him every time he was alone, when he felt down, when he fell to his own bottom; it scared him.

“Did he write you, where he is? Did he write you, that he’s okay? Did he write, when he’ll come back?”

“Grantaire, he never got hurt,” Combeferre told him after two months of constant questions.

It didn't calm him. Not when he kept thinking about what Enjolras had told him the night before he left. _“I’m not happy.”._ After a few days he always wrote that he was okay. Sometimes he sent a photo. It often happened that he was back within two weeks. He was not talking about where he was, with whom he was, what he was doing. He just returned. Without a single scuff, without bruises. He was never drunk. He was never with someone. He was cheerful, his gaze equally cold, he spoke calmly. Every time he returned; he was always _the same_.

And that was _strange_.

Grantaire finally understood what was happening. No one knew Enjolras' _true self_. No one knew what he was thinking. Nobody knew anything was bothering him. “Enjolras is not that kind of person,” everyone said.

But was it really so? Grantaire knew he had something common with Enjolras. Something dark that he himself was afraid to talk about. He was terrified that someone as angelic, powerful, charismatic, balanced with their life, with a brilliant future — was actually as weak as him. That he had his own demons who choked him.

Grantaire was worried about him. He couldn't sleep properly for three months. He thought of him all day. He was angry when he noticed how the others didn't care. “Enjolras will return,” they said. He knew it. But he was afraid. He was worried about him because he was the only one who _understood_ what it meant to fight with himself.

_Three **fucking** months._

Grantaire rolled over on the bed. He was still holding Enjolras's shirt in his hands. He knew he was weak. Weak to be away from him for so long. He picked up his cell phone. In the heat of the fight, his display broke. He blindly found his conversation with Enjolras. He read them all.

_Hi, why aren’t you at the meeting?_

_Combeferre is leading another meeting. Too much schoolworks, right?_

_Hey, if you don’t wanna talk about what happened between us the other night, I’m cool with it. You were drunk. I was drunk. Moment of folly. Both of us. Don’t worry. It’s okay. So, come to the next meeting, okay?_

_Hey, Combeferre told me that you didn’t wrote him any message. That’s little weird. Everything’s okay?_

_Feuilly asked about you today. He said you two had tickets for cinema today and you didn’t show up. Way to fucked someone out of first date. Ha-ha._

_No, sorry, that was mean. I’m jealous because we never have a date I guest._

_Don’t mind anything I wrote about the date._

_Another week and you’re still, well, somewhere? The hell, you’re okay?_

_I shouldn’t do that but I went to your apartment today. Your neighbors told me you didn’t show up for month and don’t even pay the rent. You’ll be on street, you fool. Where are you?_

_Combeferre said you’ve done this before. That calmed me down._

_Bud he also said that you always got in touch. So now I’m nervous again._

_Did you join a sect or something?_

_Where are you?_

_Why aren’t you answering?_

_I can’t imagine someone like you could be without a cell phone. So you’re ignoring me on purpose? Wow. And I thought we were already good._

_You don’t care? Okay. But at least write to someone else, we’re quite worried about you._

_Where are you?_

_Don’t take the previous messages so seriously. I sound like some upset lover._

_Sorry for mentioning a_ lover _when there’s nothing between us._

_Ignore the messages completely, please._

_Or no, don’t ignore. Say I’m an idiot. Come on. You’re good on that._

_Where are you?_

_This isn’t funny._

_Really not._

_What are you doing?_

_Where are you?_

_Where are you?_

_Where are you?_

All unanswered messages.

“Three months,” he whispered. He pressed the shirt more against chest and sucked the scent. It still smelled of Enjolras. Burnt wood, strawberry and cinnamon. He had never thought such an aroma would seem intoxicating to him. Tears poured into his eyes. He didn't want to cry. He looked at the phone display again and before he fell asleep, he wrote:

 _I miss you, Enjolras_.

When he woke up in the morning, he first noticed a message on the phone. His phone almost fell out of his hand. Message from Enjolras.

 _I’m coming back. Wait for me_.

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, yes, one of my favorite headcanons - Grantaire had depression by canon, and I always imagined that Enjolras suffer from mental illness (depression and strong anxiety attacks) too, but no one knows about them. And maybe because of that, Grantaire is attracted to him more, because he can understand how hard is it. Okay, I'll stop now. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr [2WNikiAngel](http://www.2wnikiangel.tumblr.com).


End file.
